An Origin Story
This is just a quick little ficcy, inspired by multi-fandom RPing, thrown together on impulse, and barely even reread through, but hopefully you might enjoy it.
Title: An Origin Story
Summary: Late in the afternoon of 7 September, 1940, 300 German bombers attacked London, escorted by 600 fighters. Another 180 bombers attacked that night. Many of the bombs aimed at the docks fell on neighboring residential areas. 436 people were killed.
But this is a story about two of those who weren't.
Disclaimers will follow the text
Bombs had fallen on London.
Bombs had fallen on the hotel where the traveling side show performers from America had been staying. The entire troupe, performers known the world over for their physical oddities and enterprising spirits, had been wiped out.
Save one.
His posing suit was grey and black with burns and soot. His feet were bare, and the right lens of his glasses was cracked to bits and smoked over. His eyebrows were gone, along with his eyelashes and hair, and parts of his skin were cracked and peeling, and he walked with a heavy step along the streets on this, the first night of the blitz, lit only by the still burning fires of the ruined buildings around him.
They were all gone. The pinheads, the siamese twins, Gary the three-legged dog, even. Ernest had been right when he'd told him about war. But none of them had thought they might experience it here. It had only been his strength which had allowed him to survive, but he wasn't sure what the use of strength could be. Not without friends.
Then he heard the crying.
It was faint, but his sensitive hearing picked up the sounds from the crumpled ruins of what looked like it had once been a lovely little house that he was passing by. For a moment, he considered just continuing on, but it was a child's voice, small and pained and desperate, and as hard as he listened, he couldn't hear any others who might be able to comfort the boy. Glass pinched against his bare soles as he picked his way toward the sound over the rubble, but it didn't cut. It never did. He'd never bled. It was part of the routine, Baltar the Sword Swallower would join him on stage, demonstrating the sharpness of his blade on an apple, or a melon, or whatever fruit they could get, then struck with all his force.
But he never bled.
There were planks of heavy, smoldering wood in the way, but these were shifted easily. If he'd cared to, he could have shifted this entire house with a single push, before it had been ruined. The pieces were no trouble at all.
The boy lay in the remains of a metal cupboard, it what looked like it had once been some sort of workshop. He was no more than ten, small for his age, with singed, black hair falling over his eyes. His hands, bearing rings on ever finger, were clenched on his knobby knees as he sobbed, not yet noticing the man who'd come to help him.
The man knelt, holding out his own sooty, strong hand. "Are you . . . alright, boy?"
The boy looked up, grey-green eyes ringed in red. "They're gone."
The man nodded. "I'm very sorry."
The boy peered at him, looking over the burned clothes and the broken eyeglasses. He looked to where the man's knee was resting, on the bits of glass, wood, and nails, and then he reached out to take the man's hand. "Are . . . are you a superhero?"
The man smiled faintly, about to shake his head, but then stopped. "I . . . yes, boy. I am. If you like, maybe I can be your superhero."
The boy looked around them, then nodded. "Okay."
The man thought for a moment, then leaned down to look the boy in the eye. "You will need to be very brave if I'm going to be your superhero. Can you do that?"
The boy nodded faster, now. "I'm very brave."
"I can tell. You'll need to be . . . fearless."
The boy wiped at his face and stood up even straighter. "I'm fearless!"
"Fearless enough to . . . fight evil?"
That got a foot stomp. "I'm the most fearlessest boy in the world!"
The man broke into a grin. "Excellent! What's your name, boy?"
"Walter Dornez." Walter held a ringed hand.
The man took it for a firm shake. "A pleasure to meet you, Walter. That's a fine name. A name fit . . . for a viking!"
"And your name, sir?"
The man released his hand, and gathering his energy, threw himself into a bouncy, muscleman pose. "I . . . I am Artie! The most strongest man in the world!"
Walter shook his head. "You should just say 'strongest'. It sounds better."
Artie nodded. "Good point. Let's go find something to eat."
And they took each other's hands again, stepped out over the rubble, and back into the street.
"Tell me, boy, do you know where I can find shoes?"
"Yeah, but I don't know where socks are."
"That's okay. I don't need . . . socks. . . ."
The End
Disclaimer: Walter Dornez is from Hellsing. Artie, the Strongest Man in the World, is from The Adventures of Pete and Pete. I own neither, nor am I making any money from this work.
Title: An Origin Story
Summary: Late in the afternoon of 7 September, 1940, 300 German bombers attacked London, escorted by 600 fighters. Another 180 bombers attacked that night. Many of the bombs aimed at the docks fell on neighboring residential areas. 436 people were killed.
But this is a story about two of those who weren't.
Disclaimers will follow the text
Bombs had fallen on London.
Bombs had fallen on the hotel where the traveling side show performers from America had been staying. The entire troupe, performers known the world over for their physical oddities and enterprising spirits, had been wiped out.
Save one.
His posing suit was grey and black with burns and soot. His feet were bare, and the right lens of his glasses was cracked to bits and smoked over. His eyebrows were gone, along with his eyelashes and hair, and parts of his skin were cracked and peeling, and he walked with a heavy step along the streets on this, the first night of the blitz, lit only by the still burning fires of the ruined buildings around him.
They were all gone. The pinheads, the siamese twins, Gary the three-legged dog, even. Ernest had been right when he'd told him about war. But none of them had thought they might experience it here. It had only been his strength which had allowed him to survive, but he wasn't sure what the use of strength could be. Not without friends.
Then he heard the crying.
It was faint, but his sensitive hearing picked up the sounds from the crumpled ruins of what looked like it had once been a lovely little house that he was passing by. For a moment, he considered just continuing on, but it was a child's voice, small and pained and desperate, and as hard as he listened, he couldn't hear any others who might be able to comfort the boy. Glass pinched against his bare soles as he picked his way toward the sound over the rubble, but it didn't cut. It never did. He'd never bled. It was part of the routine, Baltar the Sword Swallower would join him on stage, demonstrating the sharpness of his blade on an apple, or a melon, or whatever fruit they could get, then struck with all his force.
But he never bled.
There were planks of heavy, smoldering wood in the way, but these were shifted easily. If he'd cared to, he could have shifted this entire house with a single push, before it had been ruined. The pieces were no trouble at all.
The boy lay in the remains of a metal cupboard, it what looked like it had once been some sort of workshop. He was no more than ten, small for his age, with singed, black hair falling over his eyes. His hands, bearing rings on ever finger, were clenched on his knobby knees as he sobbed, not yet noticing the man who'd come to help him.
The man knelt, holding out his own sooty, strong hand. "Are you . . . alright, boy?"
The boy looked up, grey-green eyes ringed in red. "They're gone."
The man nodded. "I'm very sorry."
The boy peered at him, looking over the burned clothes and the broken eyeglasses. He looked to where the man's knee was resting, on the bits of glass, wood, and nails, and then he reached out to take the man's hand. "Are . . . are you a superhero?"
The man smiled faintly, about to shake his head, but then stopped. "I . . . yes, boy. I am. If you like, maybe I can be your superhero."
The boy looked around them, then nodded. "Okay."
The man thought for a moment, then leaned down to look the boy in the eye. "You will need to be very brave if I'm going to be your superhero. Can you do that?"
The boy nodded faster, now. "I'm very brave."
"I can tell. You'll need to be . . . fearless."
The boy wiped at his face and stood up even straighter. "I'm fearless!"
"Fearless enough to . . . fight evil?"
That got a foot stomp. "I'm the most fearlessest boy in the world!"
The man broke into a grin. "Excellent! What's your name, boy?"
"Walter Dornez." Walter held a ringed hand.
The man took it for a firm shake. "A pleasure to meet you, Walter. That's a fine name. A name fit . . . for a viking!"
"And your name, sir?"
The man released his hand, and gathering his energy, threw himself into a bouncy, muscleman pose. "I . . . I am Artie! The most strongest man in the world!"
Walter shook his head. "You should just say 'strongest'. It sounds better."
Artie nodded. "Good point. Let's go find something to eat."
And they took each other's hands again, stepped out over the rubble, and back into the street.
"Tell me, boy, do you know where I can find shoes?"
"Yeah, but I don't know where socks are."
"That's okay. I don't need . . . socks. . . ."
The End
Disclaimer: Walter Dornez is from Hellsing. Artie, the Strongest Man in the World, is from The Adventures of Pete and Pete. I own neither, nor am I making any money from this work.